


Outrun/Outlast

by Spineless



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, dubious accuracy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:49:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spineless/pseuds/Spineless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks before the battle of Monmouth, Alexander is shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. splinters

**Author's Note:**

> i just wanted to write a fic where alex gets shot............ i never intended for it to go this far......... somehow in the midst of college and nanowrimo i find time to write fuckign HAMILTON fanfic... it's 3 am

When Alexander was seven years old he fell down the ravine at the edge of his town, the one in the woods just behind his house. He had gone out to skip rocks in the stream at the bottom of the valley and slipped in the mud. He tumbled down, rocks and tree branches tearing at his clothes, his flailing limbs smashing into the ground, hard. He lay, half submerged, wailing until his mother ran out and found him, bleeding and bruised. 

When he was older, he wrote about the incident, referencing it as the symbolic end to his childhood, comparing the pain with that of a bad beating. Yet he escaped the next decade and a half relatively unscathed.

Relatively.

* * *

 

To be fair, they _knew_ Ackerman was a spy. He was kept in order to feed false information to his British connections. When he was discovered, it was Hamilton’s idea to use him. It was strategy, that’s what it was; they were being smart. His movements had been predictable, they monitored him close enough. There was nothing to suspect that he’d walk into Washington’s quarters on the field, armed, in broad daylight. 

“Sirs,” he had greeted, standing straight and polite. Washington and Hamilton were hunched over various papers––receipts, letters, documents. Hamilton’s right sleeve was stained halfway to the elbow with ink, and a quill was clutched in his hand. John Laurens had entered just minutes earlier; he stood off to the side, a deep scowl painting his fine features, a protest half formed on his lips. 

“Ackerman,” Washington said with a distracted frown. “Is there a problem?”

Ackerman reached into his coat pocket and, with deft, practice movements, withdrew a pistol.

A few things happen. 

Laurens lunges toward Ackerman, who fingers the trigger. Ink, feathers, and papers flying, Hamilton gives Washington a surprisingly powerful shove. Washington stumbles. A shot goes off. 

A bullet enters Hamilton’s shoulder, in the space to the left of his neck and slightly above his clavicle. It misses the suprascapular artery, though not by much. It exits through the thick material of his coat. Ackerman is knocked to the ground by Laurens. Blood pours from the wound in Hamilton’s shoulder. It intermingles with the ink on his hands, staining everything it touches a deep scarlet. 

Washington shouts to men outside, barking directions and commands with firmness and ease. Hamilton stares at the blood on his hands. Laurens grabs his arms. “ _Alexander…! Alexander––Oh, Jesus….”_ Someone is pushing him into a seat, which is great, because his vision was starting to gray at the edges and his head felt like it was detaching and floating away, like a kite. Bees fill Hamilton’s head. The buzzing in his ears does not lessen.

And then the pain hits him. 

His shoulder feels like thick, molten flames, running down his arm and back. It takes his breath away, leaves him panting. In a fleeting moment of clarity, he recalls his fall down the ravine, how sore and swollen he was, how, in that moment, it had been the most pain he had ever felt. The pain is paralyzing, he can not move, he is rooted to his seat, gasping like a beached fish. Someone applies pressure to the wound and he cannot help but release a guttural moan, halfway to a scream. His ass is in a chair but his head is floating amongst the clouds. 

“ _Shh,_ ” A hand cards itself through his hair. “The medic is on his way. It’s alright. It’ll be alright.” The hushed words press themselves against his ear and he hears them, sure, but they can’t register as concepts. His big, magnificent brain is occupied with a single concept: pain. It’s like his shoulder has grown ten times in magnitude. Who knew such a small sphere of lead could cause such turmoil? 

Someone is tugging on his upper arm, several someones, actually. They lead him upward out of his seat but the change in altitude, though slight, is sudden. His head detaches and cards away. Someone is speaking in his ear again. He can’t see. His knees give out. And Alexander’s shoulder is constantly, constantly flaming. 

* * *

 

Fuzziness. Like being swathed in wool blankets acres wide. The bees speak in murmurs. They occupy his limbs, weighing him down. His first instinct is to rub the grit from his eyes, and shake off the firm embrace of sleep, no matter how much this hangover wants to drag him back under. He moves, but can’t even raise his arm off the bed. The embers smoldering in his shoulder sputter and light and the noise that emerges from his mouth is a choked off gasp, a partially formed whimper. 

“…can’t stay still even when unconscious…” Murmuring. Light touches. Rustling. Cool moisture drips down his forehead. 

Alexander opens his eyes.

Canvas ceiling. Lighter than that of his own tent. The overwhelming scent of rot, death, and linen. He doesn’t remember much. Meeting with the General. Deliberations over documents. Ackerman. The bastard. Things grow red and distant after that… the memories of surgery are already blessedly fading but the taste of leather and rum still lingers in his mouth. His jaw aches. Somewhere above him is a sharp intake of breath. 

“ _Finally_.” 

Curls enter his peripheral vision. 

“John?” he intends to say but his mouth is dry, drier than he realized, his throat stings, and what he actually ends up saying is a barely coherent “–– _Hhn_?” which just sounds like another moan. 

“Stop moving, fool. Don’t talk. It’s alright.”

“Wa’er?” 

There’s rustling to the side. “I don’t know if you’re well enough to sit up.” 

Hamilton smacks his lips, clacking and sticking with dried saliva. He blinks several times. Laurens hovers near his right side, face drawn and pale, brow furrowed. Hamilton’s head lulls against the cushion but he stares up at his friend, gaze fuzzy but firm. “Please.” The syllable is grating in his throat. 

John sighs. 

A moment later, a strong pair of arms support Hamilton’s upper body, raising him slightly off the thin mattress. A water canteen is pressed to his lips and he drinks, drinks through the searing, constant pain driven greater by shifting and moving. It feels like he’s barely taken more than a few sips when the rim of the bottle is taken away and he’s placed back down. 

“Washington,” he starts. “is he…?”

Laurens clicks his tongue impatiently.“The General is _fine_. He was here earlier for a visit. He’s been out of sorts without his right hand man.” He sits back in his chair and lets out a breathy laugh. “Talk about a legacy, Alexander. I can’t wait to see all your medals after this is all over.” He shakes his head. “Saving the commander in chief from a would-be assassin-spy…. You never fail to impress.”

Alexander wants to ask John why he sounds so sad, but he’s tired now. Who knew getting shot would cost so much energy? His shoulder stews like a neglected hearth, constant, buzzing, hot. Darkness creeps over the edges, shrouding John in thick black mist. Before Alexander succumbs, he speaks one last phrase barely louder than a whisper: 

“Thank you, John.”


	2. fragments

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet.

For just a moment.

* * *

He breaches wakefulness and it’s like being shot over and over again. Slow. Drawn out. Constant.

“Shit. He’s waking up.” Not that he _wants_ to, of course, but he’s helpless to stop it. 

“Now?” Alexander doesn’t have a name to go along with that voice, but it sounds vaguely familiar, like he had heard it in a dream. There are strange hands on him, pulling him, urging him, coiling around his person like sinister snakes, beacons of heat. He tries tries to shake them off, but it only results in more pain. 

“Damn it, Alexander, stop moving!” Laurens is shouting at him, annoyance tinged with fear. “They have to clean the wound!”

While _clean_ sounds good, _wound_ does not. “No––no––” He doesn’t want anyone touching him. He wants them to let him sleep.

Please, let him sleep. 

Someone grabs his shoulder and he sobs, once, the sound mingling with the other complaints from his fellow wounded soldiers. A cool palm holds his cheek. He sighs into the touch, the world narrowing to a point but not narrow enough. In a moment divided, he is twelve years old again, back in the arms of his mother, their cries and the stench of death filling the air pressing on all sides. 

And, for once in his life, Alexander stops. The fight drains out of his tense, thrashing frame, and he sags against the bed. His breath rattles in his chest.

“Has he gone under again?” the unnamed voice asks. 

“His eyes are still open.” Hamilton figures Laurens’s voice could bring him back from the edge of the earth itself. It’s a pinpoint of light in darkness. He embraces it, and his world turns over like an hourglass. Sand drains from his ears and his face is pressed gently against the mattress. His pillow is gone. The hand moves from his face to cup the back of his neck, a tepid spot in an abyss of heat. 

His shoulder hurts _so much_. The unceasing pain is exhausting, a crushing burden to always be bearing, and _why_ _is he still awake_? While studying and writing he would always stave off sleep for as long as possible but now he yearns for it, he curses all those times he scorned its embrace. He wants to feel blackness slide over his gaze and he wants to succumb to gentle waves. He wants it. He needs to not feel anything, just for a little while.

“ _John_ ,” he says, then tries again, “John.” The name sticks to the roof of his mouth along with his tongue. 

“I’m here, Alexander.” 

He closes his eyes. 

* * *

Alexander awakes again later when the light is golden and casts long shadows across the walls of the tent. Pain and excess sleep clog his memory; he doesn’t know what time it is, what day it is, how long ago he was shot. Two days? Or three? Or was it only merely hours ago that Ackerman raised his pistol?

There’s a bitter, acrid taste lingering in his mouth and he wants water, but he can’t really bring himself to move. He turns his head against the pillow and doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until he opens them.

Lafayette sits on a stool by his side, gaze cast downward over a piece of stiff paper. Alexander makes a noise low in his chest and the Marquis looks up. “ _Mon dieu,_ ” he exclaims quietly, placing the paper aside and leaning forward. “Alexander. You sure know how to scare grown men half to death.” 

“This was never my intention.” His syllables are slightly slurred and he may have switched to French halfway through the sentence. 

“No, of course it wasn’t, you noble idiot.”

If he’s remembered as a noble idiot, so be it. There are worse things. There are always worse things.

“And before you ask,” Lafayette continues, because he can see the question form in Hamilton’s expression, “You were shot yesterday, at noon. It is nearing midnight now.” 

A full day and a half, most of which is simply gone. “I can’t remember much.” Concepts and half-formed memories flit back and forth in his mind. He cannot hold onto one thing for more than a moment. This is bad, for it makes thinking and conversation difficult. This is good, for it distracts him from the never ending pain. 

“Thank whatever gods are listening for _that_ ,” Lafayette says pointedly. He had heard Hamilton’s screams during the surgery from halfway across camp. 

Hamilton thinks about water again. He wonders if it’s worth the effort. He wonders if it’s worth the pain. Pain. “What does the surgeon have to say about the wound? Will you tell me?” He realizes that, if the answer calls for it, he’s essentially asking Lafayette to tell him if he will live or die.

He’s imagined death so often that the moment feels like a memory. If he dies a noble fool, perhaps it will have been enough. At least it’s Lafayette here, delivering the news. Alexander doesn’t know what he would have done if John had been sitting there instead. Well. At least it isn’t _Burr_.

“It is not a mortal wound.” The Marquis rubs at his eyes. “If infection can be staved off, you face a full recovery.”

Ah. 

Good news after all. 

The shock of an answer is exhausting enough. All thoughts of water leave Alexander’s mind. He begins to say something, but falls asleep before the words can enter open air. Lafayette shakes his head, yawns, and rises. “Goodnight, Alexander.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be longer but i am Incapable of writing chapters longer than a thousand words............................ besides i knew that if i didn't update tonight i would never update again
> 
> The response I've gotten so far has been amazing!! Thank you everyone for the kudos and comments. Feedback is very much appreciated––writing for Hamilton is a little weird (is it RPF? is it historical fiction? what is going on!!!!) so I love hearing people's thoughts. Thanks for reading!!!


	3. shards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important conversations; a calm before the storm.

Hushed murmurs swirl above him like constellations, bringing him to wakefulness despite their considerations to be quiet. He doesn’t force consciousness along, but instead allows it to overtake him. He keeps his eyes closed while he takes internal stock: his shoulder pulses in time with the beating of his heart, the pain having lessened only a mite from before. A small blessing, but a welcome one. He directs his attention away from the constant sensation of pain and focuses on the conversation occurring around him. Though his head is still clouded, the bees at the edge of his mind are muted. When he concentrates, he catches snippets of the conversation, and puts names to the voices. 

“… will heal fine.” Washington himself has come to sit at his bedside. Something about this should bother Hamilton––something about decorum and favoritism, surely––but instead he feels rather pleased.

 The next voice surprises him so much that he almost breaks his ruse immediately. “Hamilton is a stubborn man. He will be not be bested by this injury.” It’s _Burr_. Burr on one side, Washington on his other, the two men conversing in a manner with which they may discuss the weather. 

The world really has turned upside down. 

Alexander decides that having two people discuss him like he isn’t even there is disconcerting, to say the least, and opens his eyes. He blinks blearily in the sudden brightness, and hears a sharp intake of breath from his left side. 

“ _Hamilton_.” Washington’s tone betrays his relief. He’s looking over at him with his brow set in fatherly concern, a true, infectious smile on his lips. Had Alexander enough blood in his system, he probably would have blushed.

“Your Excellency.” He winces at the sound of his voice, strained and raw. His gaze flicks over to his other side where Burr sits tensely. “Mr. Burr.”

“Sir.” 

“How kind of you both to visit.”

“I had to see for myself how you fare.” Washington grows serious. “You saved my life, Alexander. That is not a an action to be taken lightly.”  

But Alexander is shaking his head, protesting, “I acted just as any man in my situation would.” 

Burr scoffs. “Now, now, there’s no need to be so modest.”

“I admit, I am not in a celebratory mood at the present time.” Hamilton coughs as to punctuate the idea. 

“You must be in pain.”

“Yes.” There’s no use in denying it.

“Well, as Burr was saying,” Washington’s gaze focuses on the man, “you are much too stubborn for your own good. A wound like this will not best you.” 

Burr inclines his head. “How skilled you are, Hamilton. Few have accumulated the ability to earn gunshot wounds while letter writing.” 

“You’d be surprised, Mr. Burr.” Alexander’s lips twist. “Besides, I am a man of many talents. Are there many rumors of my apparent death?”

Washington laughs. “There is some talk, but all hearsay is overshadowed by tales of your bravery.” 

“No one gossips like a solider,” Hamilton agrees. He clears his throat. “Please, make sure the rumors do not reach my wife.” 

Washington’s lips thin. “It is the least I can do.”

“Thank you.” 

“No, Alexander.” Washington’s eyes are large and sober. He looks like he wants to reach out and clasp Alexander’s arm but he doesn’t, perhaps in fear of aggravating the injury, perhaps to retain a semblance of propriety. “Thank _you_. I may be dead were not for your actions.” His voice is grave.

Washington may have died, and the revolution along with him.

The revelation hits him full force. Alexander finds it hard to breathe around the sudden knot in his throat. “Ah.” He coughs once, twice, and swallows, trying to ignore the tightness around his own eyes. “Well. Ackerman was a piss-poor shot, anyway.” 

Washington leans forward in his seat and gives a breathy laughs. He shakes his head. “Listen to Burr and curb your modesty for once." He shakes his head, and begins to rise. “Excuse me gentlemen. I must take my leave. Heal quickly, Alexander. You are needed.”

Hamilton raises his uninjured arm in a half-wave, half-salute. Burr stands and salutes as well, receiving a nod from Washington. Two men are left with their silence. 

Hamilton lets his eyes slide closed. Conversation has tired him, which is bit frightening, really. He detests his own weakness, even if he knows that it is to be expected, even logical. He hates being weak in front of people like Washington, his commander, and especially _Burr_. “A bullet it to the neck, eh?” His words begin to slur, like he has had too much to drink. “Like Montgomery himself.” 

He doesn’t hear Burr sit back down. Perhaps he left along with Washington. He cracks his eyes open to check.

Burr remains. His eyes are downcast, peering down at Hamilton with a calculating look of resentment. Hamilton holds his stare. 

“I see no reason why you choose to belittle your own sacrifice.” 

“I see no reason why I should amplify it.” Saving Washington required no overt amount of skill or courage. He was in the right place at the right time, an act done without thinking, done reflexively. It would bring him no command, no power. He was glad to have done it, and would do it again without a spare thought, but felt no reason to embellish or play the part of the martyr. He begins to say as much to Burr, but the man turns and leaves without another word. 

* * *

That afternoon, Hamilton bullies a nurse into allowing him to sit up. She doesn’t want him to, she says he shouldn’t, she says he’ll regret it, _Mr. Hamilton, you’re not well enough, please_ every time he asks. He continues to badger her. _Sitting up won’t kill me, I’ll be alright_ , until, with a sigh, she gives up. She doesn’t dare mouth off directly, but he can tell she wants to, the way her lips are set. He doesn’t care. He has lain horizontal for far too long, and parts of his body that haven’t been shot are starting to ache. He wants to feel like a person again, like a human being, and not a sickly patient.

Several minutes, three pillows, and countless swears later, Hamilton is raised to height he deems acceptable, face pale and sweating. His head spins and his shoulder throbs, but he’s upright. He holds a modicum more dignity than before, and he’ll take it. The nurse shoots him a look that borders on insolent before she turns on her heel to attend to other duties. 

He’s still panting slightly when Lafayette strolls in, face brightening to see his friend now vertical. 

“ _Monsieur Hamilton!_ ” he greets with a grin. “How do you fare? Better, I hope?”

“One could say that.” Although, he’s not sure _he_ would. The bees have returned, buzzing loudly in his ears. He attempts to shift himself up higher on his backdrop of cushions, in order to be on more equal footing with Lafayette, who takes a seat beside him. Yet before when he had the nurse to aid him, he has no one. He dares not ask Lafayette for help. It’s just sitting, he can manage. He presses his palm against the mattress and tries to leverage himself up further and his shoulder _pulls_ in a certain way. The muscle protests loudly, angrily, and the level of pain, which had remained constant, rises dramatically. 

Hamilton gasps, which tapers into a moan. He can’t help it. He blinks back spots and Layette is there at his side, a hand wrapped gently around his upper arm, speaking hurriedly. “Alexander, you damned fool––“

_Fool_. Just as Laurens had called him. 

“I’m alright,” Hamilton answers, voice thin. “I’m alright.”

Lafayette stares at him evenly. “Should you be upright at all?”

“Probably not.”

A sigh. “Alexander….” 

Hamilton waves him off. “I’m fine, see?”

“I am not sure I would qualify ‘nearly fainting’ as _fine_.”

“I did not nearly _faint_.” 

“Call it what you want, I lost you for a few moments.” 

“I am _fine!_ ”

“There is no need for you to lose your temper.” 

“I wasn’t. I’m not.”

Lafayette sighs. He scratches at his nose and leans back in his seat. “You have been _wounded_ , my friend. You must allow yourself the time to heal. If not––“

“I know. I just––“ He’s useless. Again. Resigning himself to the idea that his part in the war would consist of not leading men, but writing, took time. It’s taking time. It’s his own personal battle he faces when he sees men being assigned command day after day, knowing that Washington would shoot him down if he ever breached the subject. And now he can’t even do his damned job, can’t even sit up in bed without it becoming a whole ordeal. 

“It’s alright,” Lafayette replies, voice quiet. “I understand.”

Alexander blinks rapidly and swallows. “Have you seen Laurens around? I haven’t seen him today. Has he been sent away?” Laurens would truly understand his feelings. He always does.

The Marquis shifts in his seat and clears his throat.

Alexander frowns. “What? What’s wrong?” He truly hopes John hasn’t been sent away—he doesn’t know what he would do, spending God knows how much longer in this forsaken bed, without him. 

“Laurens has been… inconsolable.”

“He knows I’m alive, yes?” Inconsolable? Over what?

“He believes himself to be the cause of your injury.”

Alexander could almost laugh. In fact, he does. It hurts. “I didn’t realize that John Laurens was masquerading as a man called William Ackerman this whole time. I also hadn’t known that he had somehow gained the ability to be in two places at once––and that he was such a poor shot.”  

“He thinks that he should have stopped Ackerman before he was able to get a shot off.”

“He knows that’s ridiculous, right?”

“Apparently not.”

Hamilton has to sigh. “And what? He’s avoiding me to bask in his guilt?” 

Lafayette inclines his head. “He is convinced.”

“Tell him to stop wallowing and come see me. It’s doing no one any good.”

“I have tried. He is beside himself.”

“Well, it’s not as if I can shake him out of this myself. You must find a way to get him here. I will speak to him myself, and sort this whole thing out.”

Lafayette sighs. “I will make another attempt.”

* * *

Long after Lafayette has left, once the sun has sunk below the hills and painted everything in warm, orange light, once the moon has risen in the inky sky, Hamilton awakens once more. 

It’s a slow, brutal awakening, punctuated by nightmares that so desperately want to bring him back to their grip of sleep. He’ll open his eyes for a few seconds before being sucked down under, murmuring protests the entire time. The unwavering heat has returned; it is more than the warmth of early June, but something suffocating that seems to radiate from his very core. The bees have returned; they are loud enough to block out everything.

His moans garner the attention from one of the nurses. She checks his pulse, peels back the gauze on his shoulder to check the progress of his wound, and lays a hand against his forehead. She stops, looks down at her patient, and hurries to get the surgeon. 

* * *

The entire room reeks of liquor, but Lafayette figures that may be from the spilled cup on the ground rather than from the man holding the bottle. 

“Lafayette. How can I help you?” Laurens's tone is clipped, a scowl half-painted on his freckled face as tends to the minor mess.

Laurens himself can also be regard as a minor mess. His uniformed is disheveled, hair unkempt, and he has drunk enough to have gone red in the face. Not to mention the rum splashed on his trouser leg. 

“John,” Lafayette says quietly, making the conscious decision to use his friend’s Christian name. “You have not gone to see Alexander.” It is not a question. It is a statement. 

Laurens fumes, hand tightening on the neck of the small bottle. “We had this conversation mere hours ago and you are back already? Do you not have anything better to do than pester me incessantly? I will reiterate what I said before––”

“ _John_. That’s enough.” 

Laurens takes the time to look, really look, at his friend. What he sees written on his face makes him freeze. “What? What is it?” he asks. “What’s wrong? Is it––?” 

“Alexander has come down with a fever.” 

The bottle slips from his grasp. It shatters when it hits the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is a little late, I meant to work on & post it last night but I was busy.... seeing Hamilton!! i scored a ticket through the lottery and it was an amazing experience. lin-manuel miranda is very kind, and insanely talented and i had a great time!! it is.... Really Good
> 
> this chapter was a little tricky.... there's so much dialogue..... weep. And this story keeps getting longer??? it started out as 3 parts and now it's up to five... i hate making long drawn out h/c fics too (and by hate, i mean it's the only thing i know how to write) There will probably (hopefully) be one more part after this, and finally an epilogue, which will be a minor rewrite of "meet me inside" 
> 
> anyway! thanks for reading! the feedback has been lovely!!

**Author's Note:**

> A few things:
> 
> If you’re a historian, I’m sorry. If you’re a doctor/surgeon/trauma speciality, I’m sorry. If you’ve ever been shot, I’m sorry. If you’re Lin-Manuel Miranda, I’m not fucking sorry. My only defense: artistic license. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!! I'd love some feedback.


End file.
